Scotland Yard Academy
by Darcy Lovette
Summary: Abandoned by his awful mother at London's most prestigious boarding school, John Watson is looking at a life of work, limited freedom and a break from his mother. However, his plans took an unexpected turn when he met Sherlock Holmes, infuriating, mysterious and irresistible. Soon, John's boarding school experience becomes one of confusion, experimentation and sexual liberation.
1. Chapter 1

"_Do try to make friends, dear_."

His mother's departing words played over and over again in his head; patronizing, totally lacking in any understanding of John's situation.

'Do try to make friends…' the sixteen year old thought, 'yes, dear mother, because my absence of friends from public school was all down to a lack of trying. Because that was all _my_fault, wasn't it mother? _I_ _pushed_ people away, _I chose_ to spend those years alone, it was all my choice, wasn't it mother?'

He dropped his case onto the bed, giving his dorm room a quick glance over. The carpet was freshly starched, each navy fibre was stiff and clean. The panelling gleamed from a fresh coat of polish, the paper showed neither mark nor tear.

'Mother must have taken out a second mortgage to pay the tuition,' John thought, peaking inside the empty chest of drawers, the smell of shaved wood filling his nose. He ran his fingers along the sharp edges, considering which drawer should contain which item of clothing.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice someone had appeared at the doorway, "… Yeah, we call that a _chest of drawers_, impressive, huh?"

John jumped so much he almost banged his leg on a drawer handle. The guy in his doorway was just shorter then him, a muscley build with short brown hair, "I-I know that, I was just… thinking…"

"Don't sweat it." The guy shrugged, stepping inside, "Thinking… huh, I should try it some time." He extended a hand, "Greg Lestraid, striker of the football team and head of the chess club. Looks like we're neighbours."

'_Do try to make friends, dear…_' whispered his mother's voice in his mind. As much as he hated her, she always had a way of getting John to obey her, even when she wasn't around.

John shook the hand, forcing a smile, "Hey, John Watson, recently abandoned by his parents at a boarding school like a puppy in a well."

Greg gave an awkward laugh, "Yeah, you and about half the guys here." He crossed his arms, "So, virgin, huh?"

John blinked, "… W-what?"

"… Ever been to Boarding school before?"

"… Oh! No, I went to this public school, just out of Lond-"

"Yeah, I don't care." He shrugged, "You're here now and there's no escape, lets get you comfy." A quick smirk, a spin and he was over by the bed. "May I?" He asked, flicking open John's case before he even had a chance to answer.

"… Sure, be my guess." He muttered, moving over to the case. He glanced over it, making sure there wasn't anything he wouldn't want Greg to see. Thankfully, no guns, drugs or dildos had materialized since he'd last packed it.

"Boy, not one for possessions, are you?" Greg commented with a raised brow.

"… What do you mean?"

"Did you only bring clothes and books?" Greg asked, gesturing over the contents of the case.

John felt his cheeks reddening slightly, "… I don't really… have much of… that."

Greg chuckled.

"What?" asked John.

"Nothing… you just remind me of this other guy on this hall."

"… Who?"

"Never mind." Greg shrugged, taking out John's books and peering at each of the titles, "He's just this weird guy who freaks everybody out all the time. He's a damn genius, can tell your whole life story just by looking at you. Then again he's also patronizing, irritating and a self proclaimed sociopath. His parents think he's possessed, it's hilarious."

John wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended, "… Thank you?"

"Don't mention it, Watson." Greg collected the books into his arms, "Here, I'll stick these on the bookshelf for you. Just shove those clothes away and I'll take you on a quick tour."

John blinked, gathering up his clothes, "Uh, sure, yeah, hang on." He nodded.

He opened up the drawers one by one, considering which ones should hold his underwear, which his jumpers, his uniforms…

'_John Hamish Watson_!' Scolded his mother in his mind, '_Your drawers are a mess! I expect them organised and folded when I get back or there will be trouble_!'

John glared, 'I'll show you organised, you old bat,' he thought. He grabbed a handful of garments and shoved them inside one of the drawers. Soon, each drawer contained a mixture of shirts, pants, socks, jumpers and trousers. His mother would have gone ballistic.

Greg laughed behind him, "A man after my own heart. Life's too short to be organised, huh?"

John smirked, "Damn right. So, how about that tour you promised, huh?"

"Of course! I promised and therefore-" His phone beeped, cutting him off. He swore and fished it out, glancing at the screen. He gave a laugh, "No way!" Back in his pocket went the phone, "I've gotta go. My mate Micky Hooper just got some… erm… interesting magazines I really have to go look at." He shrugged, "Take a rain check?"

John didn't expect him to invite him along, "Sure, anytime."

"Later, Watson." He made for the door, "Oh, and welcome to ScotlandYardAcademy." He smiled, before vanishing out the door.

John sat himself down on his bed, looking over the freshly stacked bookshelf. He'd even ordered the books, his crime novels, his war stories and his science books were all alphabetised. Strange for a guy who claims he wasn't organized.

Well, he could always show himself around. Hopping up from the bed, John gave the room a final glance before hurrying out the door. He should have looked where he was going, for he collided straight into another student. He staggered back, his head pounding from the impact, blurting out an apology. Once he'd regained his balance he glanced up, and felt the breath quite literally ripped from his lungs by the boy that stood before him. Dark curls fell over his thin yet defined face, his piercing eyes staring through him like an arrow. He was tall and thin, yet John could see the buttons of his shirt straining to contain his muscley frame. He didn't seem to have reacted to the collision. John realized he had been staring at him for a good few seconds, "S-sorry… I-I'm… new, sorry…"

"I know who you are." The boy's voice was deep and smoky, "John Watson, by the sounds of your accent you're from the outskirts of London, correct?" He didn't wait for an answer, "Public school, without a doubt. Your mother, single parent, clearly, must be too busy running her fancy little business to pay attention to her son so she dropped you off here to avoid the guilt of seeing your sad, lonely little face around the house. Of course now you're here you want to get back at her for all the pain she's caused, don't you? Of course, she's never there for you. Could explain your attraction towards men, thinking they could supply the comfort and warmth she couldn't? Perhaps. Then again that's always been there but so desperate for mummy dear's approval you kept it hidden away like a bruise, correct? Textbook, all of it. And now she sent you to a school full of hormonal, frisky young men, well clever Miss Watson. If she only knew, right?"

John had forgotten how to move for a second, "… Erm…"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, welcome to the school." The boy smirked, winked and was gone before John could react. He blinked, glancing around the now empty hallway. What just happened?

Trying to forget about the unusual yet somewhat thrilling encounter with the boy named Sherlock, John continued his private tour alone. The school seemed to be in what was once a castle or a hall for some form of royalty, only with new panelling and carpets. It was very old fashioned, but with a modern twist here and there. There were hundreds of boys roaming the corridors, relaxing in the rooms, studying and chatting that nobody glanced twice at John.

He failed to take in most of the building, his head was elsewhere. Try as he might, there was something about that tall boy from the hallway which stuck in his brain no matter how hard he tried to concentrate.

John had no lessons that day. After his tour he retired to his dorm, read until nightfall, and got into bed in his shirt and boxers. Mother wanted him to wear pyjamas. He pulled the soft, thick quilt up to his chin, and laid there for about an hour, staring at the cream ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes the tall boy crept into his mind and he couldn't keep them shut for long. Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes… Sherlock… such an unusual name… it seemed to fit him in a strange way. Soon enough, the noise in the hallway quieted down, and John was able to slowly drift off into sleep.

Until a loud rapping awoke him several hours into the night. He heaved himself up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The rapping started again. "I'm coming!" John growled, who the hell could it be? He pulled open the door and his rant died in his throat. "… Erm… Sherlock, right?"

The taller boy was shirtless and seemed to be having a hard time standing up. He was toned and pale as the moon, his pupils seemed to have grown twice their size. He was gripping onto the door frame with one hand, sounding out of breath. John wasn't sure how to react, "… What are you doing here?" he asked.

Sherlock raised his head sharply, as if taken by surprise by John's presence. He stumbled forward, John went to catch him, but instead felt a pair of long, toned arms wrap themselves tightly around his waist. He tried to make a sound between a cry of pain and a yell of shock, but the lips crashing against his own muffled any noise he tried to make. It took him several moments to realize Sherlock was kissing him. It was… unusual. His lips were soft yet chapped. He'd never kissed anyone before, it was wet and uncomfortable, yet sent a weird tingling feeling down his spine and to his cock. Was this what arousal felt like?

Suddenly, the kiss broke away with a dirty pop, and Sherlock's hot breath washed over his face. The scent of coffee and cigarettes swirled around his head, making him feel dizzy. Sherlock's eyes were staring dead into John's, the pupils way larger then they should be. John realized his hands were still pressed against Sherlock's bare chest; it was firm and hot to the touch, his nipples hard beneath his palms. He was still trapped within Sherlock's embrace, yet he felt no desire to try and free himself. One of Sherlock's hands trailed up his back, a warm hand pressed against the side of his face, holding it still as he continued to stare into John's eyes. John couldn't hold his gaze for long, and tried to look away, "Sh-Sherlock, what are you-"

"Shhh…" the taller boy whispered, his lips trailed along the side of John's face, until they gently touched his ear, "please, John… don't talk… please don't… say… a word…" his breath tickled his ear, causing his cock to twitch and throb gently beneath his boxers. "Do you want me to go, John Watson?" His whisper was burning with seductiveness, "I will go… leave you here… _alone_…" John felt Sherlock's knee brushing up against his burning erection, he had to bite down hard on his lip to keep himself from crying out in pleasure and frustration, "Just say… and I'll go… if not… I will fuck you so hard… you'll scream out my name so loud everyone will know who you belong to… you'll scream as you cum, over and over and over…" The knee pressed harder against him, John couldn't stop himself letting a tiny moan slip from between his lips, "Say… you want me… to leave… now or never…"

John took a staggered breath, "… Don't… go… please?"

Sherlock gave a low chuckle, his fingers twisting themselves into John's top, "Last chance… say no now or I won't stop… no matter how much you beg… because I don't stop once I've started, John… now, tell me… are you _sure_?"

John's brain was screaming for him to stop. 'You've known him less then a day, he's clearly drunk or has taken something, this isn't right!'

"So sure…" John whispered to him, his fingernails penetrating the firm flesh stretching over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock growled deeply, shoving John hard onto the bed. He eyed John's body hungrily, his eyes burning with something… lust, passion, anger… all at once. His fingers crawled up John's legs, gripping his boxers and tugging them off, the shirt came off second. John lay there, completely exposed, completely vulnerable. His cock stood hard and throbbing, aching for touch. Sherlock wet his lips as he stared down at him; John noticed how tight Sherlock's sweatpants were getting. He pawned at the bulge, "… Touch it, John…" he whispered, "rub it…"

John didn't feel like disobeying. He reached down and rubbed his own erection up and down slowly, his gaze caught in Sherlock's. Sherlock growled in approval, pawning harder at his own, "yeah… like that… that feels good, right John?"

John nodded, running his fingers along the tip, precum dripping down his fingers.

"Yes… take your hands away…" He whispered. John paused, staring at him. "I said _now_, John." So he did, his cock aching in protest. Sherlock knelt down before him, and before John could react he felt his cock slipping in and out of the warm, wet insides of Sherlock's mouth, and his climax hit him so hard his cock erupted into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sucked and swallowed hungrily as John panted and gasped for air, his skin burning, droplets of sweat running down his forehead and chest. Sherlock smirked up at him, crawling up his body to attack John's mouth with his own; John could taste something salty and delicious on his tongue.

Sherlock pulled back, placing a finger on John's lips, "That was rather nice, John… but I'm still hard…" he whispered darkly.

John wet his lips, staring up at Sherlock with wide and obedient eyes.

Sherlock grinned, "Open your legs for me, John. _Now_."

John didn't speak or nod, he just obeyed. He spread his legs open, exposing his tight entrance. Sherlock smiled; a half smirk, mouth open slightly. It was so sexy. Down went Sherlock's head, and something wet and slippery was pressing against John's taut hole, slipping in gently. John groaned at the feeling, feeling his cock hardening all over again. Sherlock's eyes were closed in bliss, his head bobbing up and down slowly. John laid back on his elbows, eyes closed, enjoying the gentle, tingling pleasure. It wasn't as intense as before, but it was soft, sweet and felt so good. He felt Sherlock's fingers dancing up his legs. Several minutes passed before Sherlock deemed John stretched enough. He gripped John's legs by the ankles and rose them up, his eyes lingering over John's fresh erection. Their gazes locked as Sherlock slowly thrusted forward into John. The pain was excruciating; sharp and burning, filling him. He cried out as he felt tears spring to his eyes "Sh-Sherlock… no… please, it hurts, stop!"

Sherlock stared down at him, "It hurts. It will always hurt… for a while. If I stop it will hurt again next time. If I keep going…" He thrusted gently into John again, causing him to wince, "You will feel pleasure… like you've never known…"

John bit down on his lip, "… Yes…"

Sherlock smirked, "Good boy…" he whispered, moving out and in again, moaning softly as he did so.

The pain got worse before it got better. It burned hard, blinding, John felt tears running down his cheeks. But soon, the pain faded, and John felt an incredible rush of pleasure wash through his body with every thrust. Sherlock must have read the signs of pleasure on John's face, for his pace increased, his thrusts lost their rhythm and became wild, harder and crazed. He gripped harder onto John's legs, bringing them up by his shoulders, equally pulling John onto him as pushing himself into John. The two boys thrusted in and out of each other, panting, moaning, kissing and licking until they both came together in an eruption of pain, pleasure and bliss. Sherlock collapsed on top of John, rising and falling in time with John's chest, both their stomach's covered in John's seed. John shifted his body slightly; he could feel Sherlock's hot seed still inside of him. He smiled against Sherlock's hair, the scent of smoke and coffee hung on each dark curl. He ran a hand through them, twirling the curls around his fingers. They were soft and ran through his fingers as subtly as water. Sherlock moaned softly before stirring, planting a soft kiss upon John's lips, "Sleep well, little Watson." He whispered against John's lips, before heaving himself upright, tugging on his sweatpants, and slipping from the room as John fell into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John's first lesson began at 9:15 exactly. Not ten minutes late like his public school lessons, but 9:15 on the dot.  
He stumbled into Algebra 101 only two minutes late, and was met with the dead, cold stare of a judging classroom of students. He was late, he hadn't murdered the headmaster.  
"Well, now, a fresh face, I see." The teacher have an unamused chuckle, rising from behind the desk slowly. The students eyes were all fixed upon him, awaiting his next move anxiously. His voice was like a low thunder on a silent night, unnearving with a threat of danger.  
John fiddled with his bag strap, "Sorry, sir. I got lost." he lied.  
The man's lips were a tight line, though laughter burned within his eyes, "You know, whenever _I_ had to move to a new school, I'd make sure I set off at least ten minutes early, so as to not disrupt the lesson. Did this idea not occure to you, Mr. Watson?"  
John's cheeks were aflame, his stomach twisted in knots, "... No, sir. Sorry, sir."  
He scoffed, "You apologies too much. Sorry is just a word, just another combination of the same twenty-six letters. You don't say you're sorry, you _prove_ that you're sorry. How will you prove this to me, Mr. Watson?"  
John felt every eye in the room watching him, every breath held in anticipation. Hushed whispers and silent giggles ran through the room like a breeze. "U-Umm..." His voice shook awkwardly, he tried to mask it by coughing, "I don't know, sir."  
"I do, Watson." He was so close John could smell his breath; minty and cold. His hair fell down in dark, neat locks, two piercing eyes within his youthful face, "You're going to take a seat, you're going to give me every ounce of your attention, limited as it may be, and you're going to keep quiet. Do you understand me, Mr. Watson?"  
John swallowed hard on the growing lump in his throat, determined to keep his lower lip from trembling, and nodded.  
"Then what are you waiting for? For an escort to lead you to your chair?" The teacher asked, hands impatiently on his hips.  
John hastily weaved through the desks to the one at the back, avoiding eye contact with the sniggering students. He dropped his bag and slumped into his seat. He tried to look as if he didn't care, John Watson, public school bad-boy who didn't give a crap what his teachers thought of him. Somehow he doubted they'd be fooled.  
The teacher had returned to his desk area, scribbling a name onto the large blackboard. "Now, my name is Mr. Adler, I'll be the one you'll all hate but had better listen to three lessons a week. I don't care who any of you are. Now be quiet and pay attention."  
The lesson continued without any further interruptions, although Mr. Adler was rather surprised by John's work.  
"Well, Mr. Watson, I'm almost impressed. I'm so used to public school morons coming into my class..." He glanced over to another student, a sandy haired boy who looked down awkwardly, "But it's nice to see at least one made it onto the right side of the evolutionary curve."  
Whether this comment would get him praise or ass-kickings, John had yet to find out.

Soon enough, a long, shrill bell sounded break.  
'That awful sound will take some getting used to...' thought John as he and the other students filed out of the classroom, into the rapid river of students that met them in the hallway. He'd overslept too long to get to the breakfast hall before class, so he wasn't left with much. Nevertheless, he took his stale toast to the library, the only place at public school he ever felt comfortable.  
As it turned out, public school libraries were so comforting thanks to the lack of students. At this school people actually _wanted_ to do well in class, and there were no free desks or computers in sight. But, there was nowhere else to go, so...  
John made his way through the labyrinth of shelves, computers and desks, avoiding eye contact with every other student, pretending to be reading the titles of books as he did. A little part of him was looking for someone; the tall, dark haired boy from across the hall. All day he'd been trying not to think about the night before, but losing your virginity to a drugged up stranger you just met isn't something easily forgotten.  
Even now John wasn't sure how he felt about the experience. Sure, it was amazing; thrilling, satisfying and exciting. But at the same time... looking back at the way he helplessly obeyed the tall boy, the way he moaned and begged, it all sent a shiver of shame and regret through his body. He felt like a complete idiot. Who does that with someone you'd just met, especially when they're not in their right mind? God only knows what he had taken. The only other explanation for pupils being that size would be the eye drops doctors used to check if you needed glasses, and John doubted he'd just gotten back from a late night eye test at two in the morning.  
Soon enough, John uncovered an excluded area in the corner of the huge room, blocked off by two large, wooden bookshelves. He slid through them to find two large, tattered, green sofas and a small coffee table. They looked so out of place among the old fashioned, Victorian-inspired furniture in the rest of the school, but who was John to complain? It was secluded and very cosy looking, and John didn't hesitate to slump down on one of the sofas, popping his feet upon the table, and fishing a book out of his bag. He adored this book; it was about this detective who had to solve this mystery about a huge dog who seemed to be something supernatural. The author must have been nothing short of a genius.

Just as John was getting into the thumb-worn novel he'd read a thousand time, he was interrupted by the book being rudely snatched from his hands. He reached out to grab it back, but was too late. Before him stood three guys, looming above him. The one holding his book was incredibly tall, with a handsome face and neatly gelled hair. He looked thin, but John doubted he'd be any less hard then his two accomplices, both stock and muscley. He handed the book to the boy on his left, "Victor, go shove this book into the shelves somewhere... hard to find." he instructed, the tone of his voice ranging from high to low in a way which made John feel very, very uncomfortable. The boy gave a smirk, grabbing hold of the book.  
"N-no, that's mine! Not the schools!" said John.  
None of the guys seemed to care, "Do you have any idea where you are sat?"  
John wasn't in the mood for more weirdos, "Look, if this is your den or something, I don't care. Just please hand me my book back and I'll go."  
The boy in the middle's eyes flashed dangerously.  
"Who the fuck d'ya think ya talkin' to?" Asked one of the accomplices.  
The middle guy sighed heavily, "Zack, what did I say about talking?"  
The boy, Zack, shifted awkwardly, "... Don't do it..." he mumbled.  
"Exactly." The middle boy turned his attention back to John, "Now, you must be new here, or an idiot... or both." He leaned down to press his face very closely to John's and whispered darkly, "And I don't appreciate the company of an idiot."  
John felt a quiver of fear or rage in his chest, "I'm not an idiot." He said with gritted teeth.  
The boy looked amused, "If you weren't then you wouldn't be speaking, would you?" he said, fingers playing with John's tie.  
"Get the hell out of my face and give me back my book." John said slowly, a weird courage bubbling up inside of him.  
The boy's face hardened, his eyes burned into John's, "... Nobody... ever... speaks... to... me... like... tha-"  
"Not again, Jim."  
The boy span around, the middle boy slower then the rest, to find Sherlock Holmes, casually lent on a shelf, hands in his pockets.  
The boy glowered, "... Holmes."  
"Moriarty."  
"How's the insanity?"  
"Can't complain. You still look like a praying mantis."  
"Thank you."  
"You're welcome." he stepped forward, Moriaty's accomplices cracked their knuckles as he did, "Are you harassing this kid?"  
'Kid?' Thought John, 'How can you think of me as a kid after last night? You sucked my cock, you skinny bastard!'  
"Of course not! Would I do such a thing?" Moriaty stepped towards him, their faces inches from each other.  
"We both know the answer to that question..." Said Sherlock quietly.  
"We do... don't we..."  
An awkward silence followed, Moriarty and Sherlock continued what looked like an intense staring competition with each other.  
Moriarty ran his tongue over his bottom lip, "Pleasure seeing you, as always." his tone suggested otherwise, "Victor, Zack, we're leaving."  
The boys exchanged a glance, but hurried after their leader as he left. Before they could, Sherlock stopped the one named Victor with a finger to his chest, took the book, and let him go.  
He tossed the book to John, who caught it, and their eyes met again.  
Were they finally going to talk about what happened? An apology? An explanation? Anything?  
Instead, Sherlock looked at him, said "You really shouldn't sit here in the future" and was gone.  
John could have screamed.  
Did that night mean absolutely nothing to him? Was it just a fuck? Was John just in the right place at the right time, did Sherlock even care about John in the slightest, did taking his virginity mean anything to him?!  
The bell rang for the start of second period, but John didn't go. He pulled up his legs and sat there, consumed with a burning anger, shame and regret for the next ninety minutes, before retiring to his room, attempting to lose himself into his books and forget about that goddamn Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
